


In Cold Blood

by idontblogforsherlockholmes



Series: Thawing Icy Hearts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:11:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontblogforsherlockholmes/pseuds/idontblogforsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles to save John Watson after he is shot and kidnapped by a familiar criminal. After John is left nearly beaten and slashed to death, Sherlock must use his cunning skills and quick thinking to get them both out of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cabs, Letters and Pipes

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, pressing his fingertips into his temple. Kneeling down, he massaged his head in tiny little circles, swallowing and opening his eyes again. The small crowd of police officers and inspectors he was working with stared at him with concern.  
He breathed in sharply and his eyes flew open. “Pipe Street, down the road. There’s a shop there that sells the-“   
Sherlock stopped and he glanced to his left, a man walking down the street with his fists slightly clenched. He spoke – “Dear me, Sherlock. What’s happened to you? You’re having feelings for him. Oh, come on now. Don’t act stupid. Doctor Watson? You saw the blood drain from his heart, the light fade from his eyes. Your poor old Doctor is gone. Does it burn? Does it feel like acid in your veins? Like knives in your stomach? Razors in your throat? John Watson had that grief for years. Well, now I guess it’s your turn. But you know he won’t be coming back.” John Watson’s face suddenly morphed into Moriarty’s with a twisting blur. Evil eyes shining with malice, he held a gun up to Sherlock’s temple. Flailing his arms, Sherlock shouted at the hallucination with anger and grief before curling up into a ball, whimpering, sobs audible in his moans of terror. 

Firm hands lay Sherlock down to the ground as he breathed extremely quickly.   
“Paper bag! Now!” Lestrade grabbed a nearby McDonald’s bag and emptied the contents onto the floor, causing a rather obese woman with shockingly orange hair eating her lunch to scowl at him, not seeming to care at all about the man having a panic attack on the ground near her.   
Sherlock breathed into the paper bag and tried to stop his arms shaking. He pushed Lestrade away and stood up. Everyone’s eyes were on him. He cleared his throat and tried to carry on, “there’s a shop there that sells the same kind of-“  
Lestrade spoke hastily, “Sherlock, I think we should call it a day.”  
Sherlock opened his mouth in protest, but before he could make his point he snatched the brown paper bag up off the floor and vomited into it. Sherlock looked down at the floor in disgust and humiliation before twisting the bag. He walked towards a nearby cab, throwing the bag in a bin before tightening his scarf.  
Even Anderson had the decency to feel sorry for the man as he opened the taxi door and was driven away. 

 

Sherlock hummed into his hands. He needed a case. He jumped up, his warm, bare feet making contact with the cool floor of 221B. He stared at John’s chair. It needed moving.   
Moving towards the kitchen he heard a knock at the door and spun around. ‘I’m busy! I don’t want ‘visitors!’ He spat out the last word and kept walking as the door swung open. Sherlock blanked whoever had just flouted his comment. His back to the kitchen entrance, he opened the cupboard and grabbed a thin, cream plate.   
‘Sherlock:’ it was Molly. ‘Um, we need to talk about John?’  
As Sherlock brought his hand down his arm involuntarily tensed, causing him to accidentally smash the plate on the kitchen surface. He could feel Molly flinch behind him and he stood still.   
‘What about him? Yes, he’s dead Molly. Well done. Brilliant deduction.’ Sherlock’s heart fluttered in grief.   
Molly’s voice quivered. ‘Sherlock. That wasn’t why I was here. I found these?’  
Sherlock slowly turned around and walked towards Molly, her hands clutched around a crimson shoebox. Sherlock frowned and took it.   
Molly spoke quietly. ‘About a year ago he told me to give this to you if he ever… you know. He wrote something for you too… He wrote it about four months after you told him you were alive…’  
‘Why did you wait so long before giving it to me? It’s been months since he died!’ Sherlock raised his voice a little.   
Molly shifted uncomfortably and shrugged.  
Sherlock froze, not wanting to open the box. Molly nodded and walked towards the open door. Before she left Sherlock softly called to her.   
‘Sentiment?’  
She looked down at the floor, not meeting his eye. ‘Yes, Sherlock, sentiment,’ she whispered.  
The door shut with a click and Sherlock walked to the sofa, sitting down on it and placing the box on the table with uncertainty. 

He opened the lid, his hands shaking.  
The box was full of papers and booklets and little possessions. Sherlock picked up a small piece of paper.   
On it was written, ‘we lost many people today. I lost Sammy. He was too young to perish. I have to ignore my mental state and keep going but it’s grim. He was my best friend and will be remembered fondly. I hope his family are okay, they must also be… Well, yeah. RIP Sammy.’ Sherlock turned it over to find a sweet wrapper stuck to it.   
He also remarked that there were badges and medals in the package, next to a small sweet tin. Opening this he saw lots of miniature charms made of silver, and some pebbles covered in little notes.   
The next thing he picked up was a little notebook that looked newer than everything else. He lifted it up and opened it to the first page.

‘Dear Sherlock,

You changed my life. You don’t even know it, but you saved it. You saved me from myself. My depression after Afghanistan. I was stuck in a sad swirl and I couldn’t get out, but the day I met you was the craziest and best day of my life. I thank everything that I met you.   
This is for if I don’t make it past the clouds. This is if I lose grip on the things I love most. There aren’t many things, or people. You, Sherlock Holmes, are my infinity, you are everything I love and cherish. I look into your eyes and I don’t just see a man who doesn’t care about anybody, I see a man, a man who has feelings buried deep within. You make me smile and I know that you are like any other person inside. Please don’t be sad, but don’t try and hide anything either.   
When you left me, I thought that you were never coming back. I had nightmares. I had nobody, until you came back. I was alone. When you turned up on my doorstep… I didn’t know whether to punch you, kiss you, or just cry. Turns out I didn’t do either of those. I just passed out. Git. I am never ever going to forgive you for that. But I understand why you had to, and I am grateful. You’re a hero. My hero. I saved people’s lives in Afghanistan, but you are more of a saviour than I will ever be.  
Thank you. Oh, one more thing. Check the date of this entry, then turn to the last page. 

Doctor John Hamish Watson.’

Sherlock closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek and he inhaled deeply before looking again. He frowned at the last few sentences. Reading the top, he noted that the date meant that this letter/entry would have been written about two weeks ago. His heart raced. He quickly flicked the booklet to the end. Another note was written hastily in scrawled pencil.

‘Have faith. Look closely. Scan: observe: deduce. Please. I will find you, and you will find me.’

Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and shouted in confusion and shock. He ran his right hand through his hair, while his other grabbed his phone from his pocket.  
Lestrade’s number flashed on the screen within seconds, and the man picked up rapidly.   
‘Sherlock?’ His voice sounded groggy.  
‘It’s John. He left me a note after he had died to tell me, well, I’m pretty certain he isn’t dead, Lestrade.’ Sherlock talked extremely fast.  
‘Whoa, slow down. What do you mean?’  
‘John. He left something for me in case he died. It was meant to have been written about a year ago. The message was written about two weeks ago, which means he has managed to get hold of the box he put it in about two weeks ago. He is still alive, Lestrade, I know it. He also left another little note at the back, saying to deduce. He is still alive. I know it. I know it! I need people to help me look for him.’  
Lestrade was silent as Sherlock breathed heavily on the other end of the phone.  
‘What?’ Sherlock snapped.  
He breathed in slowly before replying. ‘Look, Sherlock, maybe you’re just… you know… imagining things? No- hear me out here. You’ve been hallucinating from all of the grief and you could just be getting your hopes us. I’m not going to help you. Sit down and have a cup of tea. Okay?’  
Sherlock closed his eyes. ‘No. No, you don’t understand. He’s in trouble. Why would the paramedics have said he was dead if he wasn’t? I’m positive that he is alive. If you won’t help me, fine. I will do it myself.’ He hung up the phone and slipped it in his pocket. His fists were clenched into balls, and he forced himself to sit down. 

Studying the message over and over, he closed his eyes to enter his mind palace.   
Where could John be? Then he had a brainwave. John was definitely shot, and he had no idea what had happened/was going to happen to him. The paramedics on scene had announced him as dead. Sherlock tried to resuscitate him but hadn’t felt his pulse. The blood and the fact that he didn’t cough or come back to life. This meant he must have been dead. But Sherlock could also have been given a narcotic. Then again, they were all drinking coffee. Maybe their coffees had been spiked? Maybe this time it really was the sugar? Okay. So, he knew that John could be alive. No, he had to be, otherwise he couldn’t have written the note.   
‘John. Where are you?’ Sherlock mused out loud.  
If the paramedics were part of someone’s plan, it meant that they properly resuscitated him in the ambulance. But where could they have taken him? To a hospital? No, too risky. People would have realised that he was still alive. 

Sherlock had to find some evidence. He had to find John.   
He grabbed his coat and ran out of the door. 

 

John opened his eyes and cried out in pain as he moved. Looking down he noticed a few things.  
He was in what looked like a hospital bed, except for the fact that he was in his boxers and was strapped down by his arms and ankles. The room was longer than it was short, although it wasn’t a large room either. The walls were white and the floor was light blue. He couldn’t understand why he was there. The last thing he could remember was holding on to Sherlock as he bled out. Then he remembers being in an ambulance. It went black after that.   
Sherlock.  
John’s heart felt like lead as butterflies threatened to wrench his stomach open. No, he mustn’t think anything about that man right now. He had to work out where he was. And of course, why on earth he was tied down. He attempted to sit up a little, and grunted in agony. He looked down at the restraints, were they really necessary? He glanced to the bullet wound right at the centre of his chest and groaned. Brilliant, another scar. He pulled at the thick material that was holding him down. There really wasn’t any point in trying to get out of it. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. These people weren’t just helping him. He glanced at the wound for a second time. The injury had obviously been attended to by a doctor or nurse – the bandages and padding were very neat and he could see a bottle of strong antiseptic on a shelf near him.   
Sniffing, he noticed that the room smelt very hygienic, too. But there was something slightly sinister about the lighting in the room, the buzzing that the light made and the lack of movement outside the door. This made him wary and he felt his stomach churn uncomfortably. 

All of a sudden he heard footsteps echoing down a hallway. John closed his eyes, then opened them again. Did he want to appear awake or asleep? He had no idea which was best, but decided on closing his eyes and letting his head droop.   
Two men burst in. The left man was tall and lanky, but his features were strong and defined. His face was set and his eyebrows were slanted. The man on the right was shorter but very muscular. His eyebrows were also slanted slightly, and his lips were thin.   
‘Awake! Now!’ One of them shouted, un-cuffing John’s hand restraints.   
John decided not to react. Maybe they would leave him alone if they thought he was still asleep?  
Slap.   
John snapped his eyes open and gasped at the sting.   
‘I said awake, you son of a bitch!’ The taller man growled at him, pulling him up roughly.   
John cried out in pain as his chest tightened. Both men dragged him backwards by his arms. Panic flooded through him and he was fearful as to where he was being taken.   
‘What’s going on, where am I? Hey!’ John was thrown into a much bigger room. He landed awkwardly but tried to get up as the men approached him with weapons. Knives and a pipe, to be precise. John scrambled backwards and tried to find something, anything to defend himself with. He found nothing. Closing his eyes, he screamed in pain as the first blow reached his arm. Blow after blow rained upon him until he felt a searing hot burn scrape across his leg. The knife. Both weapons merged together slashed and shattered john in unrecognisable, distorted agony.  
His eyes rolled back into his head as his last hazy thoughts clouded. 

 

A text message?  
Sherlock whipped out his phone as he hailed a taxi. The black cab smoothly came to a stop near the pavement while the detective opened the text.   
‘Oh, isn’t he just lovely? You certainly chose well. He’s very loyal. Oh yes, forgot to mention, your dear old doctor isn’t actually dead. But you probably already worked that one out for yourself, Sherly. He looked so smart when he arrived. Shame about those clothes, I hope you’ll be able to get the blood stains out. Want to negotiate with us to get your beloved John back unscathed? Join me at Butcher’s Lane. I’ll be in the big building just round the corner. Ha-ha, Butcher’s Lane. How ironic. Byesies!’  
Sherlock nearly dropped the phone as he read. Within seconds he’d jumped in the taxi and ordered the driver to get him to where he needed to be. 

Thrusting a wad of money into the cabbie’s hands, he raced down the dusty track to reach the warehouse. His feet pounded on the ground as he ran up to the nearest window.  
The lights were on, and inside lay John. Sherlock clamped his jaws together in disgust as he saw the man lying there: blood covered his face, arms and legs. He was breathing, but he suspected that his situation was bad. Sherlock glanced further into the room. It was large, and apart from the blood around John, it was clinically clean and bright white. It looked like a large, professional laboratory. He frowned. Not the usual criminal hideout.   
He heard movement behind him and stepped away from the window, but before he could turn his head around he was knocked out cold and everything went black.

 

John opened his eyes. A searing pain flew across his body as if he’d walked through an inferno: he whimpered at the pain. He noticed a few things about this situation. He was once more strapped to a chair. There was a lot of blood coming from his body. But most importantly, Sherlock was slumped in a chair approximately three and a half metres away from him.   
Ignoring his agony, he tried to wake him.  
‘Sherlock! Sherlock, please, wake up! Sherlock!’  
Sherlock opened his eyes slightly then closed them. A second later they sprung open so fast that John jumped a little. Sherlock looked at John, then looked around the room. He then realised that he wasn’t tied up.   
‘John! John, tell me, what did they do to you? Are you all right?’ His eyebrows were furrowed and his forehead creased as he lurched forward to tend to John.  
‘I… They patched me up, then two men nearly beat me to death.’ John’s eyes filled with tears.  
Sherlock closed his eyes. ‘What did they use to- to hurt you, John?’  
‘A pipe and a knife. Sherlock… Sherlock, they broke my arm, cheekbone, collarbone, leg and pelvis. I don’t think I can move at all. I- I’ve lost a lot of blood and my cuts are deep.’   
John shook with pain and fear. His eyes rolled back into his skull.  
‘John. John, you need to make sure you stay awake. I’ll get you out of here. I promise.’ Sherlock touched John’s bruised face softly as they held each other’s gaze. This wasn’t going to be easy, but Sherlock had made a promise now.   
He wasn’t going to let John get hurt anymore.


	2. Coma-gain?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is dying, and the pressure is on for The Great Detective to escape this trap.

Suddenly, they both heard a key scraping in a lock and Sherlock leapt back into his chair. Jim Moriarty waltzed in, four armed men behind him. Sherlock and John both gasped in horror and shock.  
‘Surrrrrrrprise! You weren’t expecting to see me here, am I right? Ah, don’t worry about a welcome back gift – I’ve got myself a Sherlock Holmes! It is so easy to lure you to wherever I like, Mr Holmes.’  
Sherlock growled, ‘I saw you shoot yourself in the mouth. And I’m also not tied up. Why?’  
Jim walked around and sniffed casually. ‘Never mind that just yet. All in good time. And I don’t need to tie you up, Sherlock. You and I both know for a fact that you wouldn’t leave here now without your Doctor - he's hardly going to get up and jog.’  
‘Why did you hurt him? How dare you?’ Sherlock dived at Moriarty but was instantly punched in the cheek by the butt of a gun. Holding his face, he slowly sat back down, shooting daggers at the five different men.   
‘Now now, let’s handle this calmly. John Watson here was hurt merely to drag you here, you understand. Oh, well, okay, you got me. Maybe I did enjoy watching from the security camera. However I wasn’t so sure about the knife, looked slightly vicious. Ah, I suppose that’s kind of my style, right?’ Moriarty chuckled and leant against a long, unscathed wall. He looked too clean and natural stood near John, who was filthy and sitting in his own drying, cold blood.  
‘They broke several of his bones and he’s lost a drastic amount of blood. He- he could die at any moment. You have to let him go to hospital. I promise you that I will not move, and I will not give you away.’ Sherlock’s eyes pleaded with Moriarty as he felt John become weaker with every passing minute.   
‘Ooh, Sherlock. That’s ever so kind of you, but do you really think I would let you contact your little Scotland Yard friends and have them surround this building? Nuh uh, not happening. Unless…’  
‘Unless what?’ Sherlock jumped at the suggestion of a compromise with eager enthusiasm.  
‘Unless you tell them that if they come anywhere near here, contact other police officers or try any sneaky tricks then I will have John Watson killed instantly. It won’t be a swift death either, I can assure you of that. But what makes you think that I will let your friends take John away? Why should I help him?’ Moriarty grinned maliciously.   
Sherlock shifted in his chair but his face was set. ‘Because I will contact Lestrade and tell him to collect John. I will tell him everything. I will tell him what you’ve just told me. I will also, if you let him go, do anything that you want me to do.’ He paused for breath and watched Moriarty.  
‘Fine. Ring Lestrade now. Put him on loudspeaker. I want to hear everything.’ Moriarty slid Sherlock’s phone out of his trouser pocket and threw it to him. He proceeded to cross his legs and pop a chewing gum into his mouth, still smiling. 

 

John listened to Sherlock, mind wavering from consciousness to unconsciousness.   
‘Everything is completely fine and dandy. I just need you to take John to hospital because he’s been attacked by a group of Moriarty’s men and I’m trapped in a room, well not trapped because I could walk right out but I’m obviously not going to do that, but I need you to take him to hospital and not ask any questions nor send anyone up here - also do not inform anyone as to what I am telling you right now because otherwise John will be killed in cold blood and there will be nothing you can do to stop it while I stay here and do whatever Moriarty wants me to do because that’s what he wanted in the first place because he knows my weak spot is John. Do you understand?’ Sherlock blurted out faster than an auctioneer.   
John caught some of Lestrade’s panicked and confused replies and his eyes closed as he wavered in and out of the darkness that his eyelids brought him. Sherlock was saving him, but in doing so was theoretically putting his life on the line. The thought of it made him feel relieved yet horrified. His cheek had swollen so much that he was having trouble breathing. His body was stiff with blood and his hip on the left hand side was twice the size of the right side.   
After an unknown amount of time he felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher. Lestrade was there with an ambulance crew. They had obviously been sworn to secrecy with some kind of threat, otherwise Moriarty would have ordered them to be shot on the spot. Saying he felt himself being put on a stretcher was an understatement. The pain that rocketed through his body was so unbearable that he screamed and screamed. After feeling a needle pierce his skin and liquid run into his veins, he thankfully felt himself drift off into a coma.   
The ambulance crew silently and fearfully carried John outside into an ambulance, where a restless Lestrade joined them as they drove off into the dark, raucous sirens blaring. 

 

Moriarty walked over to the space where John had been slumped only minutes ago. He stared at the blood, sniffing in disgust. ‘Clean this up,’ he told one of the bulky men. ‘And bring me a fresh chair.’  
The large man nodded curtly and left the room.  
‘Were the guns really necessary?’ Sherlock forced himself to speak.  
The consulting criminal pushed his hands into his pockets and pulled a face, still chewing disgustingly on his chewing gum. ‘Well, there had to be some kind of threat. I didn’t even bother with snipers, I know you won’t leave, nor try anything stupid. Because luckily for me, you’re not stupid.’  
Sherlock ground his teeth together in frustration and annoyance. ‘Obviously you needed guns… Along with that other little threat where you took my best friend and nearly killed him.’  
Moriarty grinned again as the door swung open. The earlier man returned, this time with a large bucket and various other cleaning equipment. Moriarty’s grin vanished.  
‘Jackson? WHERE’S MY CHAIR?’ He stepped forward, yelling into this ‘Jackson’ man’s face. The man flinched.   
His voice trembled slightly. ‘I couldn’t carry the chair as well as all of the cleaning stuff…’   
Moriarty eyed him with a stare that could kill. ‘What a shame.’ He nodded at the man stood closest to the door and with a cock of his gun, a loud shot filled the empty room, piercing Sherlock’s ears. Jackson fell to the floor, blood spilling out of his mouth, nose and back. Moriarty leant back against the wall, chewing casually again with sparkling eyes.   
Sherlock swallowed slowly, eyeing the Consulting Criminal as he ordered another man to take over the cleaning job and another to get a clean chair. A blonde, tall young man started to mop the floor after moving the still twitching Jackson away from the middle of the room. 

‘Where were me? Ah yes. You said you were happy to do anything for me now that I’ve let your John go unharmed?’  
Sherlock’s face reddened, ‘Unharmed? He’s now in an induced coma! He might not even pull through! Now what do you want me to do?’  
Moriarty shrugged. ‘Nothing really. It was just fun to mess you around. You can return to 221B, I shall probably call upon you for some more fun at some point. Unless you want to stay and clean?’  
As he was talking the other man entered with another chair. Moriarty took it and sat down, then stared at Sherlock.  
‘You mean to say that… You nearly killed John… FOR FUN??’ Sherlock was on his feet now, and he was livid. His hair bounced as his body shook with rage. However Moriarty smiled.   
‘Goodbye for now, Sherly. Or should I call you Mr Lovebird? I hope you and John will be happy together. That it if he wakes up!’ Moriarty walked out of the room in hysterics, leading the other men out.   
The last man that was cleaning looked at Sherlock and whispered something almost inaudible.  
‘Go, now, Sherlock Holmes. Go and see your John Watson. I won’t live long. I was forced to work here, and I expect I shan’t live for long. I beg you, please help me out of this mess. Find a way. Come back for me, find me again.’ He wiped his sweaty, sandy hair out of his fact with his arm. His eyes filled with tears as Sherlock backed towards the door.   
‘I promise.’   
He walked out of the door and wove in and out of corridors trying to find a way out. When he finally reached a set of giant black doors, he pushed them open and walked smartly away.

 

Sherlock walked into John’s room and frowned. A nurse was checking him. She was about 30 years old, and just from a first glance she was probably a young nurse that had just been on holiday to Spain (in a hotel with a swimming pool and tanning chairs because she had an unnatural tan for her normal features to correlate) with her parents (who had two black cats) to get away from a clingy boyfriend that had just recently started taking drugs to get over the loss of his ex-girlfriend in a recent car crash. But then again that might not be entirely accurate, it was only first glance.  
She looked over to Sherlock and smiled. ‘Friend?’  
He flinched but fake smiled back to her, ‘Yes.’  
‘He’s very sick, we’ve had to put him in a coma. We’ll have to wait until his body stabilises before we can bring him out again. It’s not certain as to if that will happen but we’re hoping. I’ll leave you two alone – he might be able to hear you, so talking to him might comfort him.’ She walks away and closes the door.

Sherlock sits on a chair next to John. He stares at him. He is covered in casts and his face is bandaged on one side. His eyes are closed, and he is very clean: almost too clean. He looks comfortable, and is breathing easily with the oxygen mask on. But it’s fake – he is in a deep sleep, along with obvious pain and needles and tubes everywhere. Sherlock’s eyes fill with real tears for the first time in forever and he lets them fall onto John. Sobbing, he kisses him everywhere, careful not to hurt him.   
He calms down slightly and tries to speak.   
‘John… I heard you when you were at my grave. You asked for one more miracle: ‘don’t be dead.’ Well, I love you. I’ve never properly said that to anybody in my life before. I need to say it, even if you can’t hear me, I need to know that I’ve told you. Now it’s my turn to ask for one more miracle, for me, John. Wake up. Can you hear me John? Wake up. Please.’ Sherlock broke down again, sobbing into John’s chest.  
Suddenly John’s heart rate went up dramatically: rapid beeping filled the room and Sherlock stood up immediately. Heart in his mouth, he ran to the door and yanked it open.   
‘Help! I need help!’ Within seconds numerous doctors and nurses filled the room.  
Sherlock couldn’t understand what was going on.  
‘I don’t understand!’ He voiced his fear, hands in his hair.

 

A nurse turned to him, eyebrows arched in disbelief.   
‘I’ve never seen anything like this before. He’s just woken himself out of an induced coma.’


End file.
